A True Crime Story in all Its True Horror

She took a deep breath and scribbled the title at the top of the page;

Best Not Read this Really


Then added the sub-title;

No, Seriously. Don’t. Just Don’t


And then she wrote;


I love you with all my heart and I always will

I promise to protect you and keep you safe

I will cherish and adore you until the day I die



Your imaginary mother.


And she paused a moment to consider what she’d written before adding.


No, not really. I’m going to throw you to the wolves at night and in the morning, I’m going to hate you for coming home mauled and thrash you awake with the buckle end of your fathers belt, even if you’re already awake.


And her stomach heaved and churned convulsively in utter disgust until at last, she regained her composure and continued to the horrifying conclusion.


Because he was mine.


And the last thing she did before losing her battle with nausea, was upgrade the title and sub-title to more prominent headings. She felt it only fair.




Nowhere Out There

‘Do you suppose someone will be along to rescue us soon? We’ve been waiting here for ever such a very long time.’

‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Why, were you expecting someone?’

‘Well, it’s just they said they’d come to help us.’

‘Oh, sweetheart. Did you believe them?’

‘Well, yes. They seemed sincere.’

‘And I’m sure they were, but nobody’s coming. It’s just you and me, here, waiting. Isn’t the view pretty?’

‘Yes, it is. It’s very pretty indeed.’

‘What shall we do while we wait? Shall we tell stories or play a game?’

‘A game! Oh, but not hide and seek though, I don’t think I could bear to be alone again.’


‘Yes, perfect. Let’s play Hangman.’




Here, Let Me Help You With That

‘If only you could somehow reach inside them and help them carry the burden of their pain. To share with them in their torment, if only so they they don’t have to be so alone with it.’

‘But you can’t. You just can’t.’

‘And it hurts.’

‘You can offer comfort and ease and understanding and this in itself is a sacred thing, but it’s not the same as helping them bear their burden. Not like you so dearly and desperately wish you could.’

‘They know it and you know it, so you share that instead. And thus, neither of you have to be quite so very alone in any of it. And there’s a mutual comfort to be found in that.’

‘And it doesn’t matter what the details are. Not the source of the suffering, not the why or where or even the who. One way or another, sooner or later, it’s the story of us all.’

‘We ache with love to ease their way as they so ache for us. All of us, just the same.’

‘What a tragic thing it is to be a forgotten mad god, muttering to one’s self in the purgatory of disbelief.’

‘Yes. A tragic thing indeed.’




A Macabre Fantasia

‘Are you alright, little one?’


‘What’s wrong my dear, are you a lost little one?’

‘Yes. And I’m scared too. I don’t know where I am or what this place is or even whether I’m alive or dead or a ghost or a shadow or make believe or even someone’s fever dream come true or nightmare made real, I’m quite confused altogether.’

‘Well, there’s no need to be frightened or confused, it won’t make any difference to the fate that awaits you. The reaper comes to harvest the souls of all mortal beings in the end. But tell me dear, where are your parents?’

‘Don’t have parents, lady.’

‘Oh dear, my dear. Are you an orphan dear?’

‘No. I don’t have parents because I’m not a mortal being. I wasn’t birthed or born, I was made out of old mismatched bones and mourning ebons and funeral shrouds.’

‘I see. Well, where are your relatives, your family, your people? You can’t be utterly alone in the world, surely.’

‘No, I’m not utterly alone surely, I have fine friends in fell fiends and fond phantom shades. I’ve just lost my way, that’s all. They’re there and I’m here but I don’t know the way from here to there or from there to here.’

‘And where are these fine friends of yours? Where in the world is there?’

‘The grave yard.’

‘Oh dear. Why are they at the grave yard? Did somebody die?’

‘Yes. Lots and lots of people died, all the time. But that’s not why my relatives are at the grave yard.’

‘Why then?’

‘They live there, they’re ghouls.’

‘So, you’re a ghoul too?’


‘Well, we’d better get you home then. Come on, take my hand little ghoul, I’m passing by the grave yard on my way. I’ll take you along with me, but no biting. Do you promise no biting?’

‘Yesss. Cross my heart and pray for death, no bitinggg.’

‘Very well.’

‘Thank you, lady.’

‘You’re welcome, I’m sure.’

‘When we get there, lady. Would you like to stay for tea, lady?’

‘No dear. I shouldn’t think so, thank you very much.’

‘Why not please lady?’

‘Well dear, I suspect the fare would not agree.’




Happy Valley Here I come

‘How can you be floating outside of yourself watching yourself, that doesn’t make any kind of sense. Like, no sense at all.’

‘I don’t know. That’s just the way it is sometimes. I don’t know how it works, I’m not a headshrinker.’

‘Sounds like some cockamamie madcap shit to me. I think it’s time for the nice big burly men with the nutter net to come pay a visit. Take you away somewhere nice and padded with one of those cool jackets with the buckles and straps you can’t wriggle out of.’

‘Don’t overreact.’

‘You’re fucking mental.’

‘Well, duh.’



To the Highest Bidder

‘How much do you think I’d get?’

‘For what?’

‘For selling out of course, silly.’

‘Hmm. In real terms?’

‘Yes, of course in real terms.’

‘Well, in real terms, not as much as you might hope and certainly not enough to fill up that massive great endless void of a bottomless hole of sorrow and woe and indulgent self pity and cloying neediness slap bang in the centre of the gaping emptiness where your soul should be.’

‘Oh. Well, how much is that in money?’

‘A non transferable fee erroneously charged.’

‘Now you’re just being rude.’

‘Yes. Yes I am.’


‘Because I think it’s funny. But don’t worry, I fully acknowledge that my sense of humor is somewhat aberrative.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s alright then.’

‘I’ll have you carted away for free if you want?’



Whippoorwill xo


Conjuring Magic

Today, something was different. Very different. Something. She did not yet know what, had changed. And things would never, ever be the same.

She could feel it in her bones, she could sense it in her blood, she could even feel it tingling in her very living flesh. Perhaps a corner had been turned or a crossroads had been reached or some other such portentous cliche achieved.

And damn. Whatever the hell it was, it felt good. Like something magical was about to happen. She could feel a kind of crackle in the atmosphere, as of thaumaturgic potential building in the air.

And for now, that’s all she needed to know.


Whippoorwill xo


The Curse of the Supernatural Superpower

It preyed on her mind. Churning and churning, over and over. She knew what he could do, she knew the look in his eyes, the body language, the desperately contained murderous rage inside. So savage and relentless it would eventually find its way to break free. She knew her cuz was in grave danger.

And she was. And he killed. And cuz was dead. And nothing she said would change it and she knew it was just too late.

But what was she to say to a woman struggling to keep her marriage together, striving to keep her family’s heart beating healthy and strong. Run for your life, take your son with you and for goodness sake don’t even dare look back? He has a murder in in him, and his anger burns for you, and your son will lose a mother and a father both?

For goodness sake, just run? Run for your life and your little one’s future?

But what was cuz supposed to say to that, what was she to think or even do. She’d just sound like a raving lunatic, a shit stirer just making a shit situation worse.

So, she said nothing. And now cuz is dead, murdered just as she knew deep down in her bones she would be but prayed she wouldn’t. And that little boy is an orphan.

And she said nothing.

And now she has to live with it.

One of the benefits of years of abuse was her keenly honed supernatural superpower for spotting murderous men. It got her out of harms way many a time. But not this time. This time it was a curse.

She wished now she’d stirred that shit, spoken up. Told that woman to run. Even if cuz hadn’t listened, the idea would have been in her mind, maybe it would have given her the edge she needed. To survive. To still be alive.

But it was too late. Far too late. Forever Amen.


The end.


Thank you for reading


Whippoorwill xo.


For Carlie. Please forgive me.


Neither Here Nor There

She inspected her hands and mused that this dissociative identity disorder deal occasionally had its happy compensations and little consolation prizes. Whoever in the world she’d been for the last three delirious days of semi-absence had done a fantastic job on her nails. Far better than she could do. She just wished they’d gone the whole hog and waxed as well, she was hairy as a wild Sasquatch.


Whippoorwill xo


Next Time I’ll Be Ready So Be Ye Warned and Heed Me Well

Fuck not with me oh ye filthy fuckers whom have fucked with me afore, for I have taken unto my bosom the secret of swift and deftly wielded steel.

Size and weight and intimidation are no manly match at all, for three or so good and gutty inches of shiny equality artfully annealed.

Stealthily concealed until aimed four square and true, straight to thy wretched and sinful beating heart and ye will soon know all I have to show.

For my slightness of frame and look of vulnerability do finely and craftily conceal, that no shrinking violet nor fainting thing am sweet little I.

No, nor as I may appear, tender prey effortlessly taken or bred soft and genteel.

Come try me. I dare you.




Thank you for reading


Whippoorwill xo.


Meanwhile in Quite Another Kind of Faerie Tale Altogether

The sleeping beauty awoke from her deep, deep dreams at long last. And after a certain amount of stretching and yawning and scratching and a hell of a strong black coffee she noticed someone had carefully coconut oiled and washed and conditioned her hair and it hadn’t been her.

She didn’t remember.

It was like the hair care pixie had visited while she was soundly adrift. And judging by the ringlets it looked like that pixie had carefully toweled and blow dried cold and used the diffuser and then a little castor oil liven up the dry ends again.

But of course. There’s no such thing as the hair care pixie. If there was they’d be run off their feet unless they had magical time travel powers which would actually be kind of a curse for the pixie. An eternity of endless hair care. That would be a living hell if it was true instead of a load of fanciful fluff.

The stuff of fever dreams.

Still lingering. Still floating. The multiple personality roulette wheel still spinning. The ball quite impossibly but somehow actually teetering between black and red.

Defying logic. Defying reason.

Defying physics?


Steady. Concentrate. Breathe. Right the ship. Trust the goddess if it helps but for goodness sake row away from the reef.

Don’t rock the boat.



It was just that one of the sleeping beauty’s dissociative alter identities was quite prideful when it came to their hair if a good deal more careless of their energy consumption and carbon footprint than the sleeping beauty was comfortable with. At all.

It was such a waste.

The waste. The wanton waste.

Ringlets. She’d bunt the coal and poured another bucket of petrol on a burning world. For ringlets. Cooled the ocean. For ringlets.

What the fuck. Had she been thinking.

But it was too late now. Everyone was doomed. For the sake of her fucking ringlets.

That was the thing about awaking from deep, deep dreams. The return to reality. Like a hammer blow. The individual responsibility. The personal accountability. The liability of belonging to a species that took a genuine garden of Eden and set fire to half of it while the other half drowned.

Concentrate. Breathe.

Lucid reality. The return to the land of the living. The land of the just hanging on by the narrowest margin. Just a degree or two.

Coming to after an episode. A spell.

It was a kick in the box.

Every time.

Was there still a chance for a happy ending? Sleeping beauty didn’t think so but she sure as shootin’ and heavens to Betsy hoped and pointlessly prayed so.

She tried breathing as shallowly as she could and stood stock still. Maybe if she didn’t breathe it would save the planet and around and around her head spun and spun until she stamped her feet and balled her fists and cried as the tears began to erupt.

‘Will you please. Please. Just. Stop.’


‘Just stop.’

And this time, it stopped.




Thank you for reading

Whippoorwill xo


Barbara Cartland Dubai Airport and Damn the Torpedoes

‘I think I want to write a something personal, about me.’

‘Go for it. It’s what you do anyway. You never stop, you just keep going on and on, except when you stop dead and vanish off the face of the planet.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to hide behind the facade of fiction this time.’

‘Fair enough. Write whatever the hell you want, it’s all good practice, nothing is a complete waste. And as far as the fictional facade is concerned, it’s pretty thin, you’re not fooling anyone.’

‘Yeah. I know.’

‘So what did you want to talk about?’


‘What about it?’

‘Okay. So, I’m trying to work out what I am. I’m definitely not an author, and to be honest I don’t think I even qualify as a writer, I’m too haphazard and disjointed and undisciplined and psychologically unbalanced. Writers and authors and poets and whatnot use structure and form and character arcs and stuff like that, even the nutty ones.’

‘So, what are you then. You write, your head is full of half baked nonsense the moment you wake up. You can’t help but compose.’

‘I dunno, I think I’m more of more of a composter than a composer. Or maybe like an irresponsible vandal or something. Scrawling rude words all over the walls of the public lavatory that is the internet. Just a pest with a reliable router and access to a VPN.’

‘Aw, c’mon. The interwebs ain’t that bad. A public lavatory? You’re being needlessly disparaging, and very unfair.’

‘Yeah you’re right. That was uncalled for. The internet isn’t like the public toilets around here, not always, sometimes it’s like the club lounge restrooms at Dubai airport. Spic and span spotless and fully loaded with everything you could possibly want to get your shit together.’

‘There’s no need to swear.’

‘What are you talking about, of course there is, there always is.’

‘Yeah, maybe you are just a vandal writing nasty little limericks. So, what are you going to do about it.’

‘Fucking own it I guess.’

‘And what about all those novels and short stories you wrote, what are you going to do about them?’

‘Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but they’re all junk.’

‘So what? Maybe junk is your thing.’

‘Maybe. It’s just I wish I could write prolifically and with focus and discipline, like Barbara Cartland or someone.’

‘Do you really think the world needs another Barbara Cartland?’

‘Why not. She knew who the fuck she was and she had her shit locked down tight. She didn’t write the kind of stuff I’d want to read, but she sure as hell got the job done.’

‘What job?’

‘The job of being Barbara Cartland, the job of being who she was and damn the torpedoes.’

‘Fair point. So, was that all you wanted to talk about?’

‘Yeah pretty much. I just wanted to give the fourth wall a few good kicks. Just to make sure it’s still there.’

‘And you know you’re just talking to yourself, right?’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Good, just so you know.’





This Seasons Style

She grew her hair very, very long indeed, just for the sheer sensuality of it. To stand beside the ocean in a steady breeze and feel it carried in wind, whipping freely as one with the world. As one with nature. As one with the very universe itself. Like some kind of hippy trippy free love cheap drugs rube of a flower child or some such.

Of course, caring for long thick hair was kind of a pain in the caboose and she thought about cutting it off sometimes, maybe get a ‘what the fuck are you looking at’ buzz cut instead. But that feeling. That feeling just couldn’t be beat. It was sweet.

Pretty. Damn. Sweet.


Whippoorwill xo


Birthday Present Party Time

She jumped for joy, quite literally, she jumped for joy. And there was even an elegant sufficiency of delighted hand clapping and effervescent giggling too. As she carefully undid the satin bow and gently removed the gorgeous paper to save them forever and always and keep for good. And opened her present to find it stuffed full of pretty peculiarities and outrageous oddities. Just like the ones she’d always wished and hoped and craved to have and to hold all for her very own. Each of them so silvery and shiny and sharp, honed and stropped to a steely keen, glittery glimmery razor’s edge.

‘Happy birthday my one and only darling one, now let’s go and get some revenge.’

‘Oh, yes please my one and only always and forever dearheart sweet. Oh, yes please, let’s do, let’s take our revenge and see what wondrous bloody work these lovely cutty things can do.’

‘That’s the spirit my love, but be sure not to eat the apple. It’s full of poison.’




Thank you for reading


Whippoorwill xo.